


Man Shall Not Live By Bread Alone

by peskyfeelings



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Character Study, Eating Disorders, Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2619275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peskyfeelings/pseuds/peskyfeelings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The table is empty. It's a feast fit for a god. (In which Dennis Reynolds has problems with food and Mac has a problem with that).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man Shall Not Live By Bread Alone

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically inspired by how dennis clearly has some kind of eating disorder in canon ("i don't eat lunch anymore" "i'm eating because i'm very uncomfortable", etc), and i wanted to explore that. but i'm macdennis trash so that got in there too... this is my first fic for this fandom, and really the first fic i've finished and posted in years.
> 
> ******PLEASE READ: if you're triggered by disordered eating or food in general doooon't read this. also a little vomit warning at the last part- so skip out on that if you're emetophobic.******

* * *

It's the second week Dennis has been barely cleaning his plate, and Mac is concerned. Maybe concerned is too strong of a word... it's the second week Dennis has been barely cleaning his plate, and Mac is  _annoyed_.

"You know, Dee only says shit like that to get to you." He says, leaning against the doorframe of Dennis's room, watching his roommate do pushups.

"Say," Dennis huffs as he dips down to the floor, "what?"

"You know, about how your pecs are getting soft or your chin is ugly or whatever. She likes to see you squirm, and you're here squirming on the floor just like she wants."

"I'm not squirming." Dennis says matter-of-factly. "I don't give a shit about Dee, this is about _me_."

"I'm just saying, dude. You should eat something."

This gets Dennis's attention. He stops mid-push and looks up at Mac. For a moment the only sound is his heavy breathing as he jumps up to a standing position.

" _You're_ going to give  _me_  advice on nutrition? You, who gained 50 pounds over the course of a month?"

"And lost it in another month!" Mac says.

"Only because I was drug-" Dennis shakes his head and runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. His words are running into each other. "You know what, that means nothing. I'm not going to let a man with your looks tell me how to live my life."

"With my looks? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know damn well what it's supposed to mean." Dennis crosses the room, feet a little unsteady and face a little pale, but eyes full of enough spite to make Mac clench his fists.

"Goddammit, Dennis." Mac wants so badly to shove him back down to the floor. Back in his place. Before he can throw a (guaranteed badass) punch, Dennis crumples to the ground in a cold faint.

"Huh," Is all Mac can say as he surveys his unconscious roommate. God always had a way of making these things easier for him.

Dennis isn't out for longer than a minute, but even after coming back to his senses he's not all there. He's compliant as Mac drags him to the couch. He's compliant as Mac settles a pillow under his head. He's a little less compliant and Mac settles down beside him and presses a glass of water to his lips.

"Drink up, man."

"C'mon, you don't hafta..." Dennis slurs around the edge of the glass. "I'm not..."

"Dennis, if you don't drink this water I'm gonna freak out on you. Do you want me to freak out on you? Do you?"

"No- no, jesus, I'll drink the damn water." He wraps one shaking hand around the glass and drains it. "Happy?"

If looks could crucify, then Mac died for our sins as soon as he met Dennis's eyes. He takes the almost empty glass and sits it down on the table. He tries to ignore how Dennis's eyes drowsily trace his every movement. (He ignores a lot of things, so it's not that hard).

"Now, what do you want for dinner?"

"What?" Dennis practically spits. He looks funny with little droplets of water on his chin. But Mac doesn't dare laugh. "I already had dinner."

"You had a carrot and a can of beer. I'm talking real stuff, Dennis. Pizza or cheesesteak or whatever."

"Yeah, I'm out." Dennis tries to stand but a sudden bout of dizziness forces him back down. Mac's hand is on his shoulder, warm and heavy, like an anchor. Or a dead weight.

"Please, dude." Mac presses his hand down harder, eyebrows folded down in that pathetic puppy-dog look Dennis hates. "What do you want for dinner?"

Dennis doesn't meet his eyes. He clenches his jaw and slowly unclenches it, thinking. "Pizza sounds good."

* * *

Dennis is a god, but he doesn't wet his throat with ambrosia or bite down on Eden's apples. He's much more interested in the ribs of Adam showing under his skin. This is power.

He doesn't remember a lot from university. Sure, there was classwork, and parties, and drinking, and girls (and one boy), and tests. But that's all the standard stuff. It's like... it's like reading a book. He knows the ninth chapter is called 'chapter nine', but shit if he knows what happens in it.

He remembers his Cultural Anthropology course, though. How could he not? The curve of Ms. Osmond's breasts in that tight grey sweater she loved so much. (Dennis loved it even more than she did).

In one particularly memorable class she lectured on the first agricultural revolution. Among the half-assed doodles of beautiful women, Dennis has but one bullet-point in his notebook from that day.

"Whoever controls the food, controls the power."

He remembers this note at every dinner. This is power. Remembers it every time he reads the menu for his friends and rattles off five orders to the waiter. This is power. But Ms. Osmond left out a very important part of this truth, so Dennis added another bulletpoint.

"Whoever controls himself, controls the food."

He remembers this note at every dinner too. This is power. Remembers it every time his stomach twists from hunger and his fork stays clean. This is power.

* * *

"I got pepperoni." Mac says as he hangs up the phone. He's so fucking proud of himself. "For protein." He's grinning, he wants Dennis to be proud too.

"Genius." Dennis mumbles. That's enough for Mac, enough that he laughs a little bit. "Hey, hey, what's so funny?"

"Nothing, just... you look like shit."

Dennis frowns. Shakes his head. Kind of wants to cry. (Doesn't cry). "I feel like shit."

"Don't worry, bro," Mac ropes an arm around Dennis, ignoring how sweaty his roommate's neck is. "Mac'll take care of you."

Now it's Dennis's turn to laugh a little bit.

* * *

It's ironic, really. Dennis is a comfort eater. His therapist once said it was because he started smoking young- the hand to mouth action is still there. Dennis fired that therapist, because some nights he ends up with a cigarette in one hand and the other dug into a stale bag of chips. Delicious. When he coughs, he coughs up slivers of salt. Disgusting.

Mac's out for the night, out with Charlie on "a mission so top secret they can't tell anyone". But Dennis figured out in three seconds Mac was helping Charlie stalk the waitress. (Why the fuck didn't they invite Dennis? He can be fun, he can stalk women). He's glad though, in a shameful way. Mac doesn't have to see him like this.

He pops in a sex tape- Chelsea, six stars, one of his favorites- and sits down on the bed. This tape is two years old. His thighs don't look exactly that good anymore, even when he tenses them up. But it doesn't really matter when there's a girl's head between them. Fuck. Chelsea was so good.

He's working his way through a bowl of ice cream now, breathing like he's running a race. It takes him too long to realize those breaths are from anxiety, the first tap on his shoulder from a panic attack. But he's alright, he's okay, he focuses on what he can touch. He stuffs a hand down his pants and a spoon in his mouth and he can breathe. He's running hot and cold, just the way he likes it.

An hour later, Dennis can't breathe again, on his back, squirming around in discomfort. He claws at his tight stomach and moans from the feeling, echoing the recorded sounds of pleasure coming from his TV. Every time he coughs, he can feel two meal's worth of food lurching inside of him. He's gone through an entire pack of cigarettes. (Thank god the smoke alarms don't work). He's gone through the entire food pyramid. And now, he thinks with a grimace, he's going through hell.

Dennis shifts his position and cups a burp behind his hand. "Excuse me," he says, but knows he's alone. He starts saying other things too, things like "I'm sorry", over and over, to an empty room, to the low-res and thrusting form of Chelsea, to the thighs he used to have, to himself, until he forgets why he apologized. His head hits the pillow and he's dreaming of nothing. He wakes up still cradling his midsection, ice cream crusted on the bedsheets.

It's the best sleep he's had in years, and he tries not to think about that fact too much.

* * *

"He who controls the food..."

"Jesus, Dennis. I seriously think you're delirious."

The pizza finally arrives and Dennis has changed his mind. But if there's anything Mac has learned from his roommate, it's that a "no" is just a "yes" waiting to happen. He has his arm around Dennis again, but more firm this time- like a warning. Dennis feels so crumpled and small and thin against him. Mac can change that. No- think like Dennis. Mac _will_ change that.

"No, no, Mac, listen to me. It's a quote. It's agriculture society... it's smart," Dennis says. He's getting pale again. "Controls the power. It's smart!"

"I got a quote for you too." Mac waves a slice of pizza around wildly as he talks. "Being forty days tempted of the devil. And in those days he did eat nothing, and when they were ended, he afterward hungered."

"Ah, fuck. Spare me."

"And the devil said unto him, If thou be the Son of God, command this stone that it be made bread."

"Mac..."

"And Jesus answered him, saying, it is written, that man shall not live by bread alone... but by every word of God."

"Fine! I'll eat if you stop the God bullshit." Dennis weakly punches the couch.

"Luke 4:2-4:4." Mac finishes with a curt nods towards Dennis. "I know your mind is crazy from no proteins, I'll let that one slide. But the big man upstairs isn't as forgiving as me, Den. Watch out."

Dennis would roll his eyes if he wasn't afraid they'd go all the way back in his head. But then, Mac is pressing the slice to his lips and he's taking a bite and chewing and swallowing _and his stomach is on fire_. He was so fucking hungry. How did he not notice how hungry he was? Dennis grabs Mac's wrist, _hard_ , and brings the pizza closer to his mouth, taking bite after bite. He lips brush the edges of Mac's fingers and he can hear the other man giggling stupidly at the sensation, but he doesn't give a shit.

Three slices later and Dennis just notices something.

"Dude, why are you hand-feeding me?"

Mac seems to notice it too. After a moment of wonder passes over his face, he answers with confidence. "Because you're not gonna hand-feed yourself."

Dennis shrugs and licks a long splatter of sauce off the side of Mac's palm. He relishes in how the other man squirms. Delicious. Mac sets the pizza down on his thigh to not-so-subtly adjust his pants, eyes locked on Dennis (and the little stain of sauce on his mouth) the whole time. Disgusting.

* * *

It's a conspiracy, he's sure of it. Dennis figures it out when he's seventeen. It's not hard.

"Mom, do I look okay?"

"You look fine, honey."

To just anyone, that conversation would seem normal. Genuine. Maybe even maternal. But in Mrs. Reynold's response, there was an underlying web... of deception. He's not fine. She has to be lying. He could hear that same spider working on a web in Dee's mouth. He hears her exactly three minutes she arrives in his doorway, on account of the metallic creaking that accompanies her every step.

"I know that our parents don't give a shit, so I'm telling you this because I don't want a dead brother."

"Go on." Dennis says. He turns down his music to show her she has his attention, but not all of it. Some of her time is still being shared with Steve Winwood.

"I know how you don't eat sometimes. So I think you should... you should fix that."

Dennis isn't prepared for this conversation. He fumbles. (Dee must notice the thin shine of sweat appearing on his brow, must notice how he's scared. How embarrassing). "Sweet Dee, do I look okay?"

Dee smiles tensely. "You look fine, Dennis."

Lies, lies, all of it. It's a trap. Dee is jealous... she wants him to eat, wants him to fail, so she can finally be the better twin. She's not winning this easily. Dennis clears his throat and puts on his best mental halo.

"Thank you, sis. I really should get something to eat, you're right. Too bad my paycheck doesn't come in till next week... guess I'll just see if mom and dad made us anything for once."

It takes Dee exactly ten seconds to crack. "Fine, you can have some of my money." She tosses him a twenty. "Go get yourself a cheeseburger." She creaks and squeaks out of his room. She probably feels so proud of herself, helping poor starving Dennis.

"Idiot." Dennis says to an empty room. He leaps out of bed and makes his way to the telephone, punching in the numbers for Ronnie The Rat.

"Heyo!" He picks up at exactly the first ring, like he always does.

"Hey, Rat. I got twenty bucks. What'll that get me?"

"My day's going fine, thank you Dennis." Another passive-aggressive comment from Ronald, what a surprise. Dennis rolls his eyes. "But you're in luck, I got some pot brownies."

"I was looking more for something I can smoke."

"Sorry dude, all out." Suddenly The Rat's voice phases out, he's yelling to someone (probably Charlie). He comes back a little breathless. "I baked everything into the brownies."

Dennis ate an entire tray of them that night. The last thought he had before slumping on Ronnie The Rat in a drug-addled sleep was that Sweet Dee actually got her fucking wish.

* * *

This isn't power.

"C'mon, Dennis. Just one more slice left. You're doing so good."

The dizziness is leaving. The God Hole isn't filled up, but it feels less gaping than usual. Dennis looks at the Mac, the man with the food and the man with control, and a different kind of dizziness comes to him. A surrender. The perpetual arm around him hasn't left. Is this how Ra felt as he lapped up the offerings the mortals gave him in their Egyptian temples? Is this how Fenrir felt as Tyr, god of war, dared to place a hand inside his toothy wolf-mouth just to feed him? Is this how Kronos felt after swallowing the stone wrapped in sheets? Like a god. Like a full, warm, and sleepy god. But a god all the same. Mac wasn't just feeding him... no, no... Mac was worshipping him. This isn't power. This is something so much better. Dennis swallows the last bite and slumps against Mac, content.

"How're you feeling?" Mac says with his mouth full.

"So much better." Dennis says with his mouth empty. He tries (and fails) to stifle a hiccup before continuing. "Thanks, dude."

"Aw, bro. No problem. You were really freaking me out there." Mac laughs after this, and he's not sure why. (Maybe it's because Dennis freaks him out a lot, actually). But Dennis doesn't seem to care. No, Dennis is pushing himself to his feet, where he sways a little bit, one hand pressed to the curve of his stomach, face paling.

"I think I'm gonna puke up all this pizza, so I'll do that real quick, then we're gonna pop in Predator and you can feed me popcorn." Dennis says matter-of-factly. "That alright, baby boy?"

Mac just nods. He's not sure what to say. He wants to say that Dennis licking butter off of his fingers sounds like a great way to spend a movie night, but he's not even sure why he wants to say that, much less how to put it into words. From the bathroom, he can hear Dennis's knees hitting the tiles. He listens to Dennis's violent retching and palms himself through his jeans until he feels just as sick himself.

The gagging noises stop momentarily. Dennis's voice, small and slurred, drifts from a room away. "Maybe next time we go out, you can order for me."

This isn't power, but it's good enough for Mac.


End file.
